


A Fair and Merciful Queen

by JessicaPendragon



Series: Non Canon Keela Lavellan [22]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Body Horror, F/M, The Bad Ending, Violence, corrupted Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 18:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaPendragon/pseuds/JessicaPendragon
Summary: She has won and they all have lost.At first they look upon him with fear and anger, throw insults and spit at his feet when she parades through her beloved subjects. Now some look at him differently, with something like discomfort, with something like pity sometimes. They are learning that he is not the one they should fear.Follow up toProtect Your Queen





	A Fair and Merciful Queen

She keeps him on a leash in public. 

Fen’Harel, the monster who broke the world again and brought apocalypse upon them. A lie, in part - he didn’t break the world this time and it was not his wrath and ruin that sowed the fields in blood and bones, but hers. They believe that she rose from the ashes and saved them all once more, that they owe their lives and their children’s lives and every life hereafter to her. They do not know how she stood by and watched thousands and thousands die by her silent decree, that only when she deemed the remaining worthy enough did she stop the decimation. He should tell them the truth, but he does not.

At first they look upon him with fear and anger, throw insults and spit at his feet when she parades through her beloved subjects. Now some look at him differently, with something like discomfort, with something like pity sometimes. They are learning that he is not the one they should fear. 

“Bring him forward.”

Her voice rings through the throne room and is answered by the click of metal boots across shining floor. Guards bring the prisoner to the center of the sun motif and force him to his knees. There is bravado about his face until he finally gets a look at his queen, and then like all the others the courage falters. Solas does not blame them. She is something to behold, darkness her dress that curls and swirls like twisted fog. Blood red vines twist around her shoulders with sharp thorns sending a clear message - she is something to be admired, adored, but not touched. 

“This is the fabled Rat King of my city?” Solas does not think the surprise in her voice is feigned and he also shares the sentiment. For months a clever thief has been running amok gaining fame with every theft, their antics growing wilder and bolder every time. Too bold. A slip Solas thought was simply unlucky, but now he knows it was that blind invincibility made so by youth. For he is young, this Rat King, no older than fifteen at the most. 

“You have made much trouble for someone so small. For that, I must applaud you. For the rest, you must be punished. Before I announce your sentence, tell me: why resort to thievery when there are so many jobs to be had? Why steal when you could have enough through other means?” The Rat King opens his mouth but words still as she leans forward, the air tightening around them like a threatening fist. “And do not lie.”

“It is easier to steal,” he admits and then looks down at the floor. “And…I enjoy it.”

She regards him for a long moment with face unreadable even for Solas before she sits back against her throne, decided. “I appreciate your honesty. Cut off his hand.”

“No.” It is out of his mouth before Solas can stop it and the effect is instant. The crowd gasps, the already oppressive air now surging with a current that prickles against skin. That he has speech at all was probably forgotten by most, but it is not that he spoke - it is that he spoke against her. No one goes against the words and wishes of their queen, no one questions their savior. Out of reverence, out of necessity, out of fear. He sees it in all their faces now.

She does not look at him but he can feel her attention crawling up his spine like biting ants, feels the collar around his throat tighten. He does not feel fear, not for himself. “Show mercy,” he whispers, eyes on the boy. He could not save her, could not save this world from her, but perhaps he can do this one small thing.

“Mercy?” Those gathered step back as she rushes to stand. The malevolence around her trembles, threatens to lash out with the power of all those voices trapped in her own, but she takes a breath and the hall calms. She descends from the dais towards the Rat King.

“Is it a mercy to the father whose coin he steals, who must now work extra to provide for his family? Is it a mercy to the baker that must now bake more bread to replace that which he takes? Is it a mercy to the one who scrapped for months for a fine gift for their wife? Is it not fair that for all you have stolen something of yours be taken in return?” 

She stops before the boy and waits until his eyes finally rise to hers. A bright streak of light flashes quick and his hand falls to the floor, severed. It takes a few seconds for the mind to catch up with the body but then he is screaming, clutching at his arm as blood stains the floor. He is allowed to wallow in agony a bit before she bends down and holds her hand over his weeping stump. A soothing, white light wraps around the wound this time and heals the flesh, knitting it together cleanly.

“It will take some time to get used to, but you will manage. Trust me,” she says with amusement although there is only one in the room that will remember why. “Now you will go work wherever you fit best and in a year, if you have shown your penitence and worth, I will bestow to you a better one.”

The Rat King No More breathes out roughly, feeling no more pain but the echo of it, and the confusion is plain on his poor, tear stained face. Once done with healing, her hand reaches up to cradle his chin, touch and smile gentle. “Am I not merciful?”

“Y-yes, my queen. Thank you.”

She stands again. “Now go.” The boy begins back away towards his guards again, body shaking and movements jittery. “Stop. Do not leave your filth on my floor.” 

He stoops down to collect his lost hand and wipe away the blood spilled with a cloth offered, and every person in the room shifts on their feet at the display. Something like rage tries to strike in Solas’ chest as he watches her return to her throne while the sentenced is escorted out. It twists inside him but it is weighed down by sorrow, always sorrow, for what he has created. 

“Leave,” she orders in that voice that is many when she sits down again and no one needs to be told twice. They scurry from the room, no doubt glad to walk into the sunshine after such things, but Solas cannot move. The tether around his neck pulls him towards her, slow but demanding all the same. When his thighs brush against her throne she lets him stop.

“I suppose something must be done after this if my citizens are turning to crime for _fun_ ,” she says, casual, flicking some invisible thing from beneath her pointed nails. “Perhaps you have an idea since you are so free with them today.”

“He was merely a boy.”

“I did not know children were exempt from law and order. I judged him fairly. I have always been fair.”

It is true. As Inquisitor she was always fair with her decisions, always weighing the greater good for all before every action. Once, however, it was tempered by her humanity, by the advice of friends and colleagues. Now, now it is a fight everyday to remind her of all she has lost and is losing. “You could have been kind.”

The hand around the chain tightens, coats with ice. It travels up the links and freezes his collar, biting into his skin. He paws at it, a useless instinct, for there is no stopping it as it spreads up his neck and down his arms, brings him to his knees when it reaches his heart. Her promise to not hurt him has been broken already, but she has yet to truly torture him, to leave scars that can be seen. She turns to face him finally then, twisting the chain around her fist to bring him closer, and he wishes he didn’t recognize her anymore. But she is still there, golden eyes and chin tilted up in defiance, in challenge, even as the rest of her sharpens with her new, horrid power. He can smell the madness of it, the decay that is slowly consuming her.

“You dare speak to me of kindness? Was it kind to take my love with your false face while I offered you everything? Was it kind to leave me on that mountain falling to pieces because you were too weak to kill me? Was it kind to leave me no choice but to become _this_? When have you ever been kind?” 

The world tilts around him, blurs. The frost fades from his body, warmth stealing in to sweep it all away, but he is not comforted. When he opens his eyes he now sits upon the throne with her in his lap, with a wicked knife in his hand poised over the exposed skin of her breast. The vines around her shiver and hiss like snakes, the vicious cloud circling them like a squall.

“Kindness did not help me survive and it will not help this new world survive either. _Harden your heart to a cutting edge_ , you said. A good lesson. It will never be my weakness again.” There is a vulnerable anger he knows and has seen before when he turned his back upon her so long ago, and that moment has shaped all the others since. “But here is your chance to finally be kind. Save me, Solas.”

He tries to pull his hand away but she holds fast, pushes the dagger farther until it breaks skin. A tear of blood pools beneath and drips into her dress. Blood as red as his. He should drive it through her, but he does not. He cannot, not while she bleeds and breathes his name so desperately. “Let the power go,” he begs her again instead. “Please, vhenan.”

“Oh, my dear Dread Wolf.” The air clears, the vines wither away. The dagger is gone as well, blood only a memory. Lips press into his, soft and familiar. When she cups his face he could close his eyes and imagine them back in Skyhold when nothing was yet broken, but he keeps them open. He deserves to see the truth, to trace the veins colored wine that run inside her flesh, to see the points of her teeth and feel the hollowness of her obsessive, possessive love. “You know it is far too late for that.”

He does. Only death will set her free and set them all free from her, from the further chaos and madness she will inevitably bring. She is a queen now, but he has seen history make gods out of queens, has seen power make monsters out of gods. She has already birthed this world in pain and blood - nothing might survive her true reign. He should do many things but hold her close, press his cheek to her chest and listen to the heart that still beats inside. It is not worth the price paid and yet he still pays it.

Where he touches her the darkness drifts away and reveals smooth skin. It has been cleared of all scars and blemishes, to make her perfect like pure marble. Fire tickles his flesh, waves of her pleasure pulling him in like so many times before and he wants to be swept under, to forget and to love her like nothing has changed, but he digs his hands into her bare hips and resists.

“Do not fret. I am much better at being a monster than you,” she says, soothing him with lips and fingers, with a voice that is only her own. The darkness coalesces behind her, waiting like a patient pet, obeying her where others bowed. He could hope that she will always overcome it, but he does not. Not even Fen’Harel is that much of a fool.

She nips at his ear, her whisper sending shivers through his nerves and rattling loose something inside. “Be one with me.”

He should not give even an inch, should not hold her tighter and taste her moans. He should push away her darkness that wraps its cool touch around his arms, urge her again and again to find the strength of her humanity once more. To undo what damage can be undone, to save them all one last time. He should collect whatever power he has left and turn them both to stone.

He should not accept her offer, but he does.


End file.
